Summer Snows
by Rezeren
Summary: 'The babe reaches up with a small hand and clasps Jon's forefinger with her own tiny, pink fingers. They look so small and weak, yet her grasp is tight and strong. The boy feels his lips curving into a smile.' The five times Jon Snow and Arya Stark made each other smile, and the one time they made each other cry. Set during their childhood at Winterfell. No romance, sibling love.
1. I: Jon

**I**

 **JON**

* * *

Jon Snow can hear Lady Stark's cries all the way from the library.

He doesn't actually want to be here, not really. Maester Luwin insists that he and Robb learn to read just as early as they wish to learn all the exciting skills- such as horse riding and sword fighting. Jon is five years old, and the words still don't make a lot of sense. He doesn't mind, however, at the present time. This is not why he is here today.

No one would expect to find him in here, and it is completely empty, which is what makes the library so perfect. Two years before, he and Robb were scolded by a particularly nasty cook for mewling when they heard Lady Stark crying out then. Robb had been distressed by his mother's shrieks and had begun sobbing, and Jon had in turn become frightened that his half brother was upset, and of the dreadful screaming echoing through the hallways of the castle. Their lord father had eventually been called from his post outside his wife's chambers to handle the two small boys. Instead of being angry like the cook, he had pulled Robb and Jon into his arms and promised them that soon it would all be over, and a reward for their patience would be a new little brother or sister to play with one day.

Sansa Stark, after the initial bout of crying, was for the most part a delightfully quiet babe. She is now two years old and unlike what Father promised, she is not easy to play with. She doesn't like rolling around and wrestling, nor does she wish to hold a wooden sword so she can play battles with Robb and Jon. The men and women of the castle tell them that this is because Sansa is a girl, that when she is older she won't train with swords, but will learn needlework, and that one day she will be a lady and she will marry a lord. So instead, they decide Sansa can pretend to be princess, while Robb and Jon are the knights who must protect her.

Jon hopes the new babe will be a boy, because then he and Robb will be able to play with him properly. Not silly little games about keeping princesses safe, but real games where they chase each other through the courtyard and hit each other with wooden swords.

After a while, Lady Stark's cries cease, and Jon wonders if it is over, and if he has a new half brother. He contemplates coming out from under the table he has chosen as his refuge, but he stays where he is. He doesn't want to be shouted at for getting under everyone's feet as they rush round the castle. If the new babe has arrived, everyone will be attending to Lady Stark, and no one will want to see a bastard in their midst.

* * *

For two days, Robb, Jon and Sansa are kept away from Lady Stark's chambers. Sansa, who is only just able to toddle around on her short legs, follows the boys around constantly, crying out for her mother. The serving girls try their best to keep the children occupied, but to no avail. By the end of the first day, even Robb is starting to get upset.

'I want to see Mother,' he says, his bottom lip trembling slightly.

'Mother. Mother,' Sansa repeats. It's one of the six words she can say so far.

Jon doesn't know what to say. Lady Stark is not his mother. The only thing he wishes to see in the newborn, and he doesn't even know if it's a girl or a boy. No one has told the children anything yet. They break fast each morning together, hoping that Father will at least join them, but he doesn't show up. Even Maester Luwin is occupied, likely taking care of the weakened mother and her newborn child.

'Do all girls hate fighting?' Jon asks on the second night, after he and Robb had a make believe duel and Sansa had begun to cry, believing Robb's pretend death to be real.

'I don't want to marry a girl if all they think about are sewing and dresses and boring things,' Robb announces.

Jon doesn't want that either. It sounds awfully dull.

On the third day, Father finally comes to them. Sansa gives a squeal of delight and throws herself at him. Father leans down to hoist her into his arms and plants a kiss on her forehead. Robb and Jon come next, both clutching at their father's legs.

'I am sorry, little ones,' Father says. 'But your mother came down with a fever. She and the babe are well now; there is nothing to fear.'

'Mother,' Sansa says.

'Yes, child,' Father replies. 'You shall see your mother. She is expecting you.'

Robb is grinning from ear to ear, and for a brief few seconds, Jon forgets that Lady Stark will not want to see him. As Father sets Sansa down and her and Robb head for the door, Jon makes to follow them, before he stops and remembers how cold Lady Stark's eyes are whenever she looks at him. He doesn't quite understand why she hates him so, but he knows it's because he is not hers; he is baseborn. He doesn't quite know what that means exactly, but he knows he's not trueborn, like Robb and Sansa. He is only their half-brother. He doesn't have a mother to kiss him on the forehead and scold him for stealing food and exploring where children ought not to be exploring.

Father bends down to his knees so he is eye level with Jon. He places a hand on the boy's shoulders. 'Don't fret. You shall see the babe soon enough. I will make sure of it.' Father's words are gentle, and there is a smile on his face. He is usually rather solemn and withdrawn, but he is always kind with his children. Even Jon, his baseborn son.

Father, Robb and Sansa are already gone before Jon realises that he forgot to ask whether the babe is a girl or a boy.

* * *

'Jon.' There's someone whispering in his ear. 'Jon, wake up.'

Jon stirs and blinks rapidly, immediately confused. It is very dark and must be quite late, so he doesn't understand why he has been woken. He peers up at the small figure beside his bed.

'Jon,' Robb says again. 'Mother is asleep. They said she's been awake for too long, so she will rest a long time. You can come and see her.'

But Jon doesn't want to come and see Lady Stark. He only wants to see the babe.

'I don't think I should see your mother…' he begins.

Robb laughs. 'Not her. Our new sister. You should come and see her.'

Jon blinks. 'It's a girl?'

Robb nods. 'Come and see.'

And so the two boys sneak through the castle, hiding behind pillars when anyone comes their way. The air is cold, but when they stick to the walls, they feel the warmth of the hot springs beneath the castle surging behind the stones. It's not unreasonably late, but certainly late enough for the children to be in bed. If they get caught, they will be in a fair amount of trouble. A large portion of the household are exhausted from tending to Lady Stark over the last few days, however, and Robb and Jon successfully sneak through the castle undetected. It wouldn't exactly be the first time. They've done it before on several occasions, both at night and during the day, often to steal food from the kitchens.

They finally make it to Lady Stark's chambers and step inside rather hesitantly. Lord Stark has not come to bed yet, likely at dinner in the great hall, celebrating. Jon peers up at Robb's mother. She is sound asleep in her bed and rather pale. Father mentioned something about a fever, and that Lady Stark is recovering from it. Even when ailed, something about her frightens him. It's her eyes, always her eyes. The way they fix on him sometimes, they way they can morph from warm and loving when she looks at Father, Robb and Sansa, to cold and hateful when she casts them on Jon. But her eyes are closed now, and Jon hopes they stay that way.

'Look,' Robb whispers, pointing to the crib at the foot of Lady Stark's bed. They can't have a lot of time- a wet nurse is sure to come back in at some point to check on the babe. Jon steps closer and peers into the crib.

The first thing he notices is the hair. There's no sign of Lady Catelyn's Tully colouring in the babe's hair like there is in Robb and Sansa. Her hair is dark like her lord father's hair. Like Jon's hair. For one strange, terrible, yet wonderful second, Jon wonders if she is baseborn. He is five years old, and logic holds no value in his head yet. Never mind that Lady Stark carried the child for nine moons, never mind the fact that he heard her screams for hours on end just a few days ago. For a moment, Jon thinks this must be a baseborn child of Father's. Just like him. A bastard, he has heard people whisper. He doesn't like that word.

But that is ridiculous. If this babe were a bastard, Lady Catelyn would not want her in these chambers. She'd want the bastard out of sight in an instant, just like she wishes on Jon.

'She looks like Father, doesn't she?' Robb says softly. 'And you. I thought she was a boy at first. It's hard to tell with babes whether they're boys or girls. And she looks so much like you and Father that I thought she was a boy.'

Jon is soon distracted from Robb's excited babbling, lost in his little dream, where this little girl is just like him. The babe is swaddled in a white cloth and is fast asleep, and although Jon feels a small ounce of disappointment at her _not_ being a boy, or baseborn like himself, he is strangely fascinated. He leans over the railing of the crib and reaches down with a tentative hand, wanting to touch the babe's hair, to make sure it is real and that she really does share his colouring.

And that's when her eyes open.

Jon freezes, hand hovering in midair. The babe blinks a few times before peering up at him, her eyes finding his own. The colour is hard to make out in the dim candlelight, but Jon imagines her eyes are probably pale like most newborns' eyes. Sansa had blue eyes when she was first born, although they did not change into something else, but remained blue like her lady mother and Robb's. Jon wonders if he had a different coloured eyes when he was a babe. He then wonders if this girl will someday have the same dark grey eyes as him.

He silently wills her not to cry. If she does, Lady Stark will surely wake up, and she will be furious to find him in here. She has never been happy to see Jon. He is not hers. He is not precious to her. He makes her angry, although Jon still doesn't understand why.

The babe doesn't cry, however. She simply watches him, before wriggling slightly in her cloth so she can bring one of her arms out. She then reaches up with a small hand and clasps Jon's forefinger with her own tiny, pink fingers. They look so small and weak, yet her grasp is tight and strong. Her skin is warm.

Jon lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding in. 'What's her name?' he asks.

'Arya,' Robb replies. 'After our…' He pauses, trying to remember what his father clearly told him. '… great grandmother. From House Flint.'

Jon nods slowly. The origin of the name means nothing to him. The name itself is what intrigues him. 'Arya,' he says, testing it. 'Arya Stark.'

A small part of him wants to say _Arya Snow._ A small part of him wishes with all his heart that there could be someone in Winterfell just like him. A baseborn child, someone to share what he has yet to properly understand- that he is not like Father's trueborn children. He hears whispers about baseborn children, about bastards such as himself; that he will inherit no lands and claim no titles; that he will forever be looked at with coldness from Lady Stark, for he is not hers. He doesn't understand why. He's not sure what he did wrong.

Jon tries to imagine Lady Stark looking at this newborn babe they way she looks at him. And suddenly, it feels very wrong to wish something like that. He thinks of how the babe would cry and wish to be held by a mother, to suckle at her teats, to be given her love, only to receive icy glares and stony silence.

This babe shouldn't have that. No one should have that. Jon wishes he didn't, but he does.

Not Arya Snow. Arya Stark. Arya Stark, the trueborn daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. Their third child together.

It matters not to Robb that Jon is a bastard. Sansa is too young to even understand that he is different. And perhaps Arya will grow up loving him. Perhaps she'll want to play with him, even if she is a girl.

With their eyes still locked on each other and newfound warmth in his chest, Jon feels his lips curving into a smile, which he sends down at his little sister. The babe stares at him for a few more seconds, almost as if she's taking in everything she sees before her and deciding exactly who Jon will be to her.

And then, just like that, with the skin under her eyes wrinkling as she squints and her chubby red cheeks curving into dimples, Arya Stark smiles back up at him.

* * *

 **My GoT tumblr: _jonathansnowflake . tumblr . com_**

 **I imagine Jon and Arya have made each other smile countless times over the course of their childhood, but I wanted to pick five monumental moments.**

 **It's about time I actually post one of my GoT fanfics and contribute to this fandom lol. This is also my first time using the five times/one time trope, which I get is usually a romantic thing. This is not a romantic fic. It's about sibling love. I am very, very passionate about these two, and if they don't actually reunite at some point in season 7 I will track the show runners down and stick 'em with the pointy end.**

 **I want to depict possible happenings in their childhood, and a couple of canon moments mentioned in the books too. As it's focused on their childhood, there won't really be any references to the current events in the books or the show- until we get the last chapter, at least. I'm only on book two, but I've pretty much had the entirety of the plot to all the following books spoilt for me over the course of many hours (I mean, they're big books with a lot of content), especially Arya's plotline. I'll be sticking to the TV show ages of the characters, or near enough, along with the TV plot for the final chapter.**

 **Thanks for reading, and remember to review!**


	2. II: Arya

**II**

 **ARYA**

* * *

Arya Stark is not afraid.

Being scared of little things like spiders and rats and the dark are for babes like Bran, who is just managing to keep up with Arya on his short, stubby legs. He's only been able to walk for a few months, but at such a young age, it feels like an eternity to Arya. Already she is worried that once he gets better at walking, and then at running, he might become faster than her. And if he can race her and win, maybe Robb and Jon won't want to play with her anymore and Bran will replace her.

She worries about things like this, but she's not afraid of them. Fear and worry are different things. Fear is for the Others in Old Nan's stories, the ones Mother says she is too young to hear, the ones Jon tells her in secret afterwards. She likes those stories, but they do frighten her. Jon always tells her that it's alright, that there's a great wall of ice, the brave men of the Night's Watch and a large stretch of land between her and the monsters in the frozen north.

The dead shouldn't frighten her, and nor should the dark. The dead don't really walk, not like in the stories. That's what Robb says. The dead lie in their tombs, or beneath the earth, or crumbled into scattered ashes. The night is just like the day, only it's harder to see is all. So the dark is nothing to fear. It _shouldn't_ be anything to fear.

Arya Stark is not afraid. Or so she tells herself.

'Last chance to change your minds,' Robb says with a grin, standing beside the entranceway to the crypts. He beckons his siblings closer, and one by one, Arya taking the lead, she, Sansa and Bran approach.

Sansa peers down the steps into the darkness. Her face is white, even paler than usual. 'Must we see them?' she asks hesitantly. 'The tombs? We can't see inside them, can we? I don't want to…'

'Well…' Robb draws in a deep breath, standing tall with a very serious face. He almost looks like Father at this moment, although not as much as Jon always does.

'They say,' Robb continues in a very peculiar voice, like he's telling a scary story, 'that some of the tombs are _so_ old that they've cracked open over time. And if you look inside, you can see the remains of all the old Kings of Winter.'

'That's rot,' Arya huffs, but she's not really sure. Robb is the oldest after all, and surely he must know more than the rest of them. Unless he's telling tales. Arya can't tell if he is. Jon would know, if he were here. But he isn't. Robb says that Jon has lessons today, and can't come with them. Arya doesn't think it's very fair that Jon must go to his lessons while the rest of them do as they please.

Sansa bites her lip. 'I think we should stay up here,' she begins nervously.

'Come on, sister,' Robb teases. 'It can be an adventure. Like all those grand ones in Old Nan's tales. The dead won't bother us. Are you afraid of them?'

Bran is too little to really understand what Robb is talking about, but he does know the word _dead._ He glances up at Arya with big, alarmed eyes. Arya is glad that she is no longer the baby of the family. She would hate to be the smallest one at a time like this, all scared and meek.

Perhaps age has nothing to do with it. Beside her, Sansa is shivering. But Sansa is scared of lots of things, like getting mud on her dresses and the owls they sometimes hear at night. Sansa doesn't want to even try to be brave. She would much rather be protected, like all those ladies and princesses in the stories.

That's alright. Bran is young and Sansa is silly, and they can both be scared if they like. Arya can be brave enough for all three of them.

'The dead don't scare me,' she announces boldly. 'They can't do anything.'

And with that, she strides forward, down the steps leading all the way to the crypts.

* * *

Bran begins clutching Arya's hand after only minutes of being down here. On the other side of him is Sansa, who is likely even paler than before, only Arya can't see in the darkness. Slightly ahead of them is Robb, who leads the way with the one candle they have brought with them.

'What if it goes out?' Sansa whispers. Even such a slight sound sends echoes around their heads, bouncing off the walls and into the darkness beyond the candlelight.

'It won't,' Robb promises. 'Trust me.'

Arya wishes she could see more. It was alright before, when they were near the steps and the torches were lit, but the further and deeper they have ventured into the crypts, the less she can make out. The torches aren't lit this far down, and most of their surroundings are now bathed in darkness. Shivers run up and down Arya's spine and out of habit, she keeps glancing behind her, half expecting something to be watching her from the shadows. Perhaps there are eyes on her, only she can't see to tell.

It's very cold down here, and small gusts of icy wind blow down the steps as they head further through the crypts. Arya tells herself that this is the only reason she is shivering, but her heart thudding a little faster than usual tells a different story.

'Here,' Robb announces, suddenly stopping. Next to him is one of the many statues, only something about it has caught Robb's fancy. Arya peers up at the stone figure as the candlelight washes over it. A long, solemn face, proud and grim, stares forward at the opposite wall. The man leans on the hilt of a sword, the end of the blade planted at his feet.

'That's Grandfather,' Robb informs his siblings. 'Lord Rickard. We never met him. He died before we were all born, at the beginning of the war.'

'How?' Arya asks curiously.

'Father won't say. He says children shouldn't hear about such things. But the Mad King did it, whatever it was. He killed Uncle Brandon too,' Robb adds, shining the light on something beyond Grandfather. The four of them take a few more steps until they're standing before another tomb. This statue looks very similar to the last one. Their uncle has the same long face as Lord Rickard, the one that Father also has. Robb, Sansa and Bran don't look very much like Father, but Jon and Arya do. Sometimes Arya wishes she had her mother's looks- after all, maybe then Sansa and her silly friend Jeyne wouldn't say she looks like a horse.

'Uncle Brandon was supposed to wed Mother and become Lord of Winterfell one day,' Robb says. 'But he died, so Father did both those things instead. We may never have been born.'

'Don't say that,' Sansa says faintly. She is already fearful enough of the crypts, and Robb's words are clearly of no comfort to her.

Robb guides the other three to yet another tomb, this one with the statue of a women. She too has the Stark look, harsh and strong. The stone face has some sort of beauty, too- a different kind of beauty to the one Sansa and Mother have. Arya wonders if any of the women in the tales looked like her. She doesn't look sweet and mild like all those ladies and princesses Sansa loves. She looks like she could be a knight, just as Arya pretends to be when she plays with Robb and Jon in the yard.

'That's Aunt Lyanna,' Robb says. 'She's the reason the war began. Father and the king fought to get her back.'

'But she died,' Sansa says sadly. Of course she wouldn't like this story; it doesn't have a happy ending. 'The king never wed her. She could have been the queen.'

'Would you want to be a queen?' Robb asks.

Sansa's face in the dim candlelight is full of wonder. 'More than anything. Imagine it.'

Arya rolls her eyes. 'Queens don't do anything.' Not like the old warrior queens in the stories, the tales Arya loves the most.

'They give the king heirs to the throne. They are loved by all,' Sansa argues.

The children finally reach a set of open tombs, prepared and waiting for when they too are dead. 'Before Father became Lord of Winterfell,' Robb says, 'only the lords had tombs in the crypts. It was the way for hundreds of years. But he wanted our uncle and aunt buried down here, and we shall be too, one day.'

Bran's grip on Arya's hand tightens. 'Don't want here,' he whimpers, which Arya supposes is his way of saying he doesn't want to be locked away down here.

'Not _now_ ,' she says.

'When we're dead,' Robb explains.

The candle flickers rather abruptly in another gust of cold air and Sansa chokes out, 'I think we should have brought another candle. Old Nan says there are spiders down here. And rats as big as dogs.'

Arya and Bran both gasp at this. Arya doesn't so much mind spiders, and she sees plenty of rats when she scurries around Winterfell, hiding in holes in the walls and behind bushes during her games with Robb and Jon. Rats don't really bother her, not if they stay away. But rats as big as dogs? Rats that could knock her over scratch at her face?

For the first time today, Arya silently admits to herself that yes, she may be just a little afraid.

Robb smiles strangely. 'There are worse things than spiders and rats,' he whispers. 'This is where the dead walk.'

Sansa gulps. 'But you _said_ they wouldn't bother us,' she says in a strangled, high-pitched voice.

From somewhere close by, a low, eerie sound rumbles, growing louder and louder with each passing second. Bran is now pinching Arya's hand, and it hurts. She wants to scold him and push him away but she is frozen, her body completely stiff. Her heart is hammering against her chest now and her breaths come out as gasps. All at once, she thinks of spiders falling from the ceiling and into her tangled hair, rats as big as dogs pushing her down and scratching at her skin and the dead dragging her away and into one of the tombs to lay with them, and suddenly Arya Stark is truly afraid.

The noise is more than just a groan now. It's a voice. _'Blooooood,'_ it calls out. _'Blooooood…'_

Out of one of the empty tombs rises a pale figure, bathed in shadows and its darkened face looking straight at them. ' _Bloooooooood,'_ it moans.

Sansa shrieks, making Arya jump violently. In an instant, the older girl is gone, tearing through the crypts towards the steps, her screams growing fainter and fainter. Eventually, all that's left are the echoes.

The spirit raises its arms and heaves itself out of the tomb. It isn't very tall at all, but it still towers over the two younger children.

Bran bursts into tears and Arya finally feels her hand being released as Bran wrenches himself away from her and throws himself at Robb, hugging his legs and sobbing loudly. Although his grip had hurt, Arya misses it now. She has nothing to hold onto. She turns to Robb, ready to clutch onto him just as tightly as Bran is, when she notices something.

The spirit is short, far too short to be one of the old lords of Winterfell or Kings of Winter. It stands no taller than Robb, in fact, and its rasping voice sounds oddly familiar. Underneath the white hair, she sees two shining eyes, glimmering in the darkness. She remembers the dead bird she saw in the yard the other day, and how its eyes were glassy and unfocused. Not like these eyes at all. These eyes are _alive._

It takes a few shaky steps towards her, but Arya stands her ground. She is shaking and her heart feels as if it's going to burst out of her chest, but although she is afraid, she won't show it. The spirit gets closer and closer towards her and Arya can just about hear Bran's wailing over the blood pumping in her ears. Just as the spirit reaches out with a white hand, Arya punches it in the gut.

The spirit doubles over, wheezing. Now that it's in pain, it no longer tries to mask its real voice, and Arya instantly recognises the sound.

'You _stupid,'_ she shouts as Jon clutches at his stomach, his wheezing drowned out by Bran's sobbing. 'You scared the baby.'

He scared her a great deal too, but she won't let him know that.

Robb is howling with laughter, rubbing Bran's back in an effort to comfort him. 'It's alright,' he guffaws. 'It's just Jon. Just a game we were playing.'

Arya spins around, fuming. 'You _knew?'_

'We came up with it this morning,' Jon manages to get out. 'I came down here earlier for it.'

Robb is gently trying to pry Bran's face away from him. 'Bran, look,' he insists. 'There's nothing to be afraid of. It's Jon.'

It takes a little more convincing, but Bran finally turns around. He still looks terrified, so Jon wipes away some of the white powder from his face.

Now that he's not so terrifying, Arya thinks Jon looks completely ridiculous, covered from head to toe in flour. She wonders if she should punch him again, and maybe Robb too, to get back at them. But then she thinks of how Sansa ran away screaming, and how maybe she'll be the one jesting at her sister tonight instead of Sansa and her friend teasing her about her long face. Suddenly, Arya feels very proud of herself. She stood her ground and fought the spirit, even if the spirit only turned out to be Jon. Arya is four years of age, and she is brave.

She's not sure whether to feel angry or even better when she hears Bran's whimpers finally morph into giggles. The young boy is relieved, and amused by all the flour.

'Why are you laughing?' Arya demands, deciding to stay angry, even if she doesn't truly feel it. 'They _lied._ They said Jon was in lessons. And they _scared_ you.'

'White,' Bran titters with a big smile, tears still all over his face. 'Loads of white.'

'It was _stupid,'_ Arya snaps.

'I should have seen it coming,' Jon admits. 'You, fighting back. Nothing scares you, Arya.'

 _I was scared,_ she almost says. But she doesn't mind, not really. She wouldn't have gotten to be so brave if she hadn't been afraid. And she really likes the way Robb and Jon are both looking at her. They seem impressed, and one more fear- no, not a fear, a worry- trickles from her mind; she supposes they won't ever be replacing her, after all.

Jon's smile is full of many things as he steps towards her once more: pride, amusement, apologies…

'Sorry,' he says, holding his arms out.

Arya launches herself into his arms like one of the massive rats Sansa claimed to be down here, and the two go tumbling to the ground. Arya is now covered in flour down her front, and she knows Mother will not be impressed. But it doesn't matter, because Robb and Jon both are.

Arya doesn't even realise that she too is smiling, until a laugh erupts from her throat. Jon's apology doesn't seem all too important. Nor does her anger. Now, it all seems terribly funny. She thinks of Sansa, who is likely still running away, shrieking in terror, and a bunch of giggles tumble out of her mouth.

'Sansa-' she gasps in between chuckles.

'We should probably go and find her,' Jon sighs. He sounds sombre, but there is still a wide smile on his face.

Robb and Bran are still laughing too, but right now, all that matters to Arya is that silly smile stretching across Jon's flour-covered face and his grey eyes, just distinguishable in the candlelight, shining with amusement. And all Arya can feel is her own mouth stretched into such a big smile that she is certain her face will burst, and the icy coldness of the crypts being washed away by the warmth in her chest.

* * *

 **My GoT tumblr: _jonathansnowflake . tumblr . com_**

 **Thanks for all the follows, favourites and reviews!**

 **So this is an actual canon scene from the books, that I decided to expand on. In Arya IV of aGoT, she reminisces an incident from years before where Robb had lead her, Sansa and Bran into the crypts for the very first time, which had then of course spiraled into the prank Robb and Jon had set up. I'd kill for actual flashback scenes like this in the show. Like holy shit. Let me see my precious little Starklings as small kids enjoying a happy childhood at Winterfell before all the bad shit happened.**

 **Luckily, none of the kids seem to have been traumatised from this experience. I mean after everything else they've been through by this point, I'm sure this is nothing but a happy memory now.**

 **Thanks for reading, and remember to review!**


	3. III: Arya & Jon

**III**

 **ARYA**

* * *

Arya wonders where Jon is right now.

He's likely training in the yard with Robb and Theon, or perhaps in a lesson with Maester Luwin. Robb and Jon are allowed to use actual steel now, instead of the wooden swords Ser Rodrik always used to have them practice with. Theon is older and has been training with steel for longer. He has often times boasted that where he is from, boys such as himself start with steel at a much younger age. The way Theon would have everyone believe, he has been using steel since he was old enough to walk. This sounds like an awful lot of rot to Arya, who has snuck out of her lessons plenty of times to watch the boys spar, and has seen first hand how Theon fares with a sword. He's not bad, but he's not especially good either. In Arya's opinion, both Robb and Jon will be far better than him when they reach his age.

She wonders how good she'd be, if only Mother let her join in. When she was younger, she was allowed to play make believe battles with Robb and Jon all the time. But they are older now, and so is she. They're not supposed to play silly, childish games anymore; they are training for real fights. She still has Bran for rough and tumble, but she cannot get away with it as easily as she did when she was younger and could be excused for this sort of behaviour. Mother insists that ladies should not be engaging in such activities. Indeed, Sansa never did act this way, even when she was little. She is every bit a lady already, even in only her nine years of age. Sometimes Arya hears her saying that she will be a woman grown soon, but she also hears Father saying that there will still be several years before either of his two girls are no longer children.

Arya wonders how old you're supposed to be before you grow up. Is it different for boys and girls? Robb and Jon are both two and ten, and although they have always towered over Arya, they still look like babes next to Father and his men. Perhaps when they have hair on their faces they will become men, or maybe when their voices break.

Septa Mordane had once said that a girl would become a woman when she had bled. Arya had not understood. 'I've bled plenty of times,' she said. 'I scraped my knee only this morning.'

Sansa had laughed at that. 'Don't be silly,' she'd said in her smooth, soft little voice. 'You become a woman when you flower.'

Arya hadn't really understood that, either. 'I'm not a flower,' she insisted. 'And I'm not going to turn into one.'

Sansa and Jeyne Poole had teased her for weeks afterwards. One day, Arya had come into a lesson late, with a small cut on her neck from where Bran had accidentally scraped her a few minutes before in a playfight. Jeyne Poole had whooped with mirth. 'There,' she had exclaimed, 'you're a flower. A red one.'

Arya hadn't minded a great deal. It was better than being called Horseface.

Her favourite of all the names people call her is by far Arya Underfoot. She earned this name because of her and Bran chasing each other round the castle, and because all the times she has sneaked into the kitchens with Jon to steal food. Arya is small and quick, and very good at at ducking under people and dodging their feet. When Father's men call her Underfoot, she knows they are not teasing her, not like Sansa and Jeyne Poole do when they call her Arya Horseface. When they laugh, they are not laughing at her. They are laughing because of her. Arya likes that.

But in here, with Septa Mordane, Sansa, Jeyne Poole, Beth Cassel and a handful of other girls, she is not allowed to play rough and tumble or run around and get under peoples' feet. She is supposed to sit still in her seat and watch as the septa shows them all how to thread a new pattern on their cloths. Sansa has already mastered it, and is graciously showing her friend how it's done. No one ever helps Arya; no one except Septa Mordane, who tuts when Arya's stitches are crooked.

'You'd be better with a hammer than a needle,' the septa says disapprovingly as Arya accidentally pricks her finger. A small drop of blood wells on her skin, and Arya prays that Sansa and Jeyne don't see, lest they start teasing her about bleeding and flowers again.

'I'd like that better,' Arya remarks. She's not sure if she'd be any good with a hammer, but at least it would be something you could fight with. She imagines herself in the yard with a hammer in hand, and Theon Greyjoy swinging his sword at her. She pictures herself ducking under his arm and spinning around to deal a final blow to his back. In her mind, Theon goes crashing into the mud, humiliated, which would certainly teach him for calling her Horseface that one time when he heard the girls doing it. From one side of the yard, Robb and Jon applaud her with proud grins on their faces, and Bran bounces up and down, clapping in delight.

'Enough with such nonsense,' Septa Mordane huffs, snapping Arya out of her daydream. 'Hammers are not for little ladies.'

Arya wonders if she should dare ask if hammers can be for big ladies. She is not big, not in the slightest, but she will be a woman grown eventually.

'They're better than needles,' she says. _You can fight with a hammer, but you can't with a needle._ She daren't say that part to Septa Mordane, however.

The septa is still unimpressed. 'You'll start over,' she says, leaning down to take Arya's cloth and pull the thread out.

Opposite her, Arya hears Sansa and Jeyne Poole begin to snicker.

* * *

 **JON**

* * *

Jon wonders where Arya is right now.

She's likely playing with Bran, and maybe Rickon if he can keep up, or perhaps in a lesson with Septa Mordane. Arya detests those lessons. Jon would know better than most, for he is the one that Arya always complains to. She's a strange child, his sister. Strange in good way. She is completely different from Jon's other sister, Sansa, who has long since learnt to truth of exactly what Jon is and begun looking at him differently. Sansa is not cruel to him. She is a sweet girl by all accounts, and Jon knows this, but she has certainly taken after her mother with regards to how bastards should be looked upon. It's not her fault, Jon must always remind himself. She can't help what she has been taught, any less than so many others who look at him in disdain can. Despite his logic, he still resents it, however.

Most of Father's men don't treat him any differently. He has grown up alongside Robb like any trueborn brother, and men like Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik have always treated the two equally, with the one exception being that quite a bit more is expected of Robb, given that he is the heir to Winterfell. But Jon has learnt to read and write and spar with his half-brother by his side, as if they both were trueborn. He remembers the whispers when he was younger and the disapproval in the eyes that would follow him around. But over the years, people have grown used to the bastard son of Eddard Stark. In time, through the eyes of most, he had become just as much a Stark child as his siblings.

It's the guests who come to Winterfell that are the ones who truly hold contempt for him, and many do come. Winterfell is the castle that holds the North, so the Starks are accustomed to housing visitors. They say the same things Jon occasionally heard as a small child, but was too young to understand at the time- that he doesn't belong here, that he is a disgrace to the great house, that Lord Eddard Stark can't possibly be as honourable as everyone says, if he fathered a bastard only months after bedding his wife on their wedding night. They don't say this within Father's earshot, of course, but Jon suspects Father has probably heard it all already.

And of course, there is Lady Stark.

She has never wavered in her contempt for him. Often as a young boy, Jon prayed for a day to come where she would sweep him up in his arms, the way she always did with his siblings, the way she still does. When he got a little older, he stopped envisioning her, and started picturing a make believe mother. The thought of Catelyn Stark suddenly showing him love made him uncomfortable. It would be too unnatural, too impossible.

She never speaks to him, unless she absolutely has to. When this happens, it is usually her snapping at him to leave the room, the way she would talk to an impudent servant. Jon doesn't mind too much. He fears the prospect of being in her presence just as much as she hates it. He cannot avoid being in the same room her come time for dinner, but there are always servants and Father's men and plenty of others in the great hall besides them. Jon doesn't even sit at the big table with his family. He is usually seated on a lower table at the other end beside Father's men, and in truth he does feel much more comfortable there.

A memory from years ago springs to mind, of a tiny little Arya who had just learnt how to walk and was finally old enough to dine with her family in the great hall. She had come stumbling into the hall after her sister and Septa Mordane, staring around with bright grey eyes at all the people seated around the room. Finally, her eyes had landed on Jon, and she had broken away from her septa and toddled over to her brother with a wide, gap-toothed grin and a delighted laugh. Jon had wanted to laugh too, only he could sense the eyes of everyone in the hall on the two of them, and he could feel Lady Stark's glare strongest of all. He had managed a smile and clutched onto his little sister when she had reached out for him and tumbled into his arms, quickly whispering that she needed to go back to her septa and be led to the big table where the family was seated. Arya, of course, hadn't understood a word of it, and had firmly planted herself on the bench beside him.

After several people trying to coax Arya to move and plenty of men laughing in amusement at the small child's antics, Father had finally announced that, just for this evening, his youngest daughter could sit wherever she deemed fit. And little Arya Stark had clearly chosen the spot beside the bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow. Just for that night, Jon had felt as if he were the most honoured person in the whole room.

Theon Greyjoy's voice shatters through the memory, crude and snide. 'You aren't going to beat anyone by staring at the ground, Snow.'

Jon scowls and straightens up, shifting uncomfortably in his thick leather garb. It is an unusually hot day and the sun is blaring down on Winterfell with no mercy. This blasted summer is lasting too long, people always say. But people always complain about the winter even more. It's been years since the last one, and it was ever so short and mild, but Jon knows that winters can last far longer and be much crueller. The stories of winters that can last lifetimes aren't just fabled tales from Old Nan, but are recorded by Maesters and well known throughout all of Westeros, not just the North.

Today, Jon wishes it were winter. Ser Rodrik has he and Theon sparring in the heat, and it not nearly as engaging as it should be. The heat is one thing, but Robb's absence is something else that bothers Jon. Father is attending some visitors from White Harbour, and now that Robb is old enough, he is required to sit in and pay attention on how the lord of Winterfell must act.

Jon can almost get along with Theon when Robb's around, at least for his brother's sake. But that arrogant smile on the Greyjoy boy's face is more unbearable than ever today.

Not a boy, Theon would say smugly if he could hear Jon's thoughts. I am a man grown. I am older than you, and I have already taken women into my bed. Jon internally scoffs when Theon proclaims such activities. He may have taken women, or at least tried to, but certainly not here in the castle. Father would never allow it. No, Theon has likely snuck off to a winter town brothel.

'Snow.' Theon is growing impatient. 'Can you swing the damn sword or not?'

'Can you?' Jon retorts. Theon is not half as good as he pretends to be.

'Better than you, bastard.'

Jon rolls his eyes. Even Theon must realise it would be no great feat to best a boy younger than him, especially seeing as how Theon thinks Jon, being a bastard, is somehow bad at this sort of thing. As if the circumstances of his birth have any weight on the matter.

Jon raises his sword, trying to ignore how heavy it feels. It certainly feels different to the wooden swords he sparred with when he was younger, and although he's been practicing with actual steel for a while now, he's still not quite used to it. Not that he's going to let Theon know that.

Before he can take a swing, however, he is interrupted by hurried little footsteps heading his way. He turns around to see Arya stomping across the yard with one of the wooden training swords in her hands. It looks too big for her, yet she carries it with fierce determination.

Theon is already chortling with laughter. 'You'd best run back to your septa, or your lady mother, before they find out about this.'

Arya comes to a stop beside Jon and glares at Theon. Her eyes are blaring with rage, and something else too. 'I want to train,' she announces.

'A gust of wind could knock you over,' Theon chuckles.

' _I_ could knock _you_ over,' Arya counters him. To Jon, she suddenly seems both older and younger than her seven years. Older because yes, Jon is almost certain that his bold little sister could figure out a way to beat Theon. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but Arya Stark is stubborn and determined and when she has her mind fixed on something, she won't let it go.

And yet, she seems younger too, Jon notes. Younger and vulnerable. There is a certain look in her eyes, something very real indeed. As he peers closer, he notices how shiny they are, and realises it all at once.

Arya is crying.

'Little sister,' he says. 'What's wrong?'

Arya won't look at him. She points her wooden sword at Theon challengingly. 'Scared?' she taunts, because if there's one thing everyone knows about Arya by now, it's that she herself doesn't scare easily.

Theon scoffs. 'Of a little mouse? I can't fight you. You're a girl, and a child as well. What kind of man would accept such a challenge?'

So he does have some honour, Jon thinks. Or perhaps he fears being bested by a little girl. The thought amuses him greatly, but he's far too concerned about Arya to smile.

'I'm not a mouse,' Arya says. 'I'm a wolf.' Her back straightens and she even bares her teeth, the way a wolf would.

'A little pup that doesn't know how to use its jaws,' Theon remarks, although his voice has lost a lot of its malice. Perhaps he too can see the tears in Arya's eyes, and would spare her from getting hurt in a spar.

'Arya,' Jon says, reaching out for his sister. 'What happened?'

Arya's shoulder is tense when his hand rests on it. 'I want to spar,' she says. Her voice sounds heavier now, and a bit constricted. 'I need to be good at something.'

Something has happened to her, Jon can tell immediately. 'You're good at lots of things, little sister. You mustn't spar, though.'

She turns on him, eyes blazing. 'You think I can't?'

'I know you can,' Jon replies, 'which is why you have nothing to prove. In all honesty, I'm sparing Greyjoy from you.'

For once, Theon has enough decency to keep quiet, although Jon suspects that this won't last much longer if his pride is wounded anymore. 'Come,' Jon says to Arya. 'Let's go.'

She stares up at him. 'Where?'

Jon casts his eyes around. Even in the awful heat and the company of Theon Greyjoy, he does so love the yard. When he trains with Robb, he can pretend he is just as important as his brother. Robb may be better than him with a sword, and Jon often does privately resent this, but he is never made to feel like he doesn't belong in the yard. It always feels like a shame to finally leave it after each session. It is difficult for Jon to go back inside, to once again be the bastard who will never rise the way Robb will.

Today, however, it won't be difficult in the slightest to leave the yard, because there is one thing more important than all of that.

Anything for Arya.

* * *

 **ARYA**

* * *

'Where are we going?' Arya asks as she meets Jon once more outside the kennels. When they had left the yard, he had instructed her to run to her chambers and change into something she wouldn't mind getting dirty. Arya had immediately argued that she wouldn't really mind getting the dress she was currently wearing dirty, but Jon had insisted.

'Something plain and simple,' he said, 'or else your lady mother will be angry. It may get torn. Nothing too thick, either. It's far too hot a day to be wearing warm clothing.'

And so Arya had done as instructed. She was careful not to pass by anyone who may grow suspicious as to why she was running through the castle- after all, what she had failed to mention to Jon was that she had in fact left her lesson early, and not by leave of Septa Mordane.

In her chambers, she had found a simple green dress; she would have preferred brown, but the only one she had was a dark dress with delicate lacings at the end of her sleeves that Mother had given her for special occasions. Arya wasn't exactly fond of how tight it had felt when she had been made to wear it at a feast once, but knew she would be in a great deal of trouble if it were spoilt.

'Well, that will certainly be better for grass stains,' Jon says as he observes her green dress.

'Grass? Where are we going?' Arya repeats, a bit more excited than before.

Hodor the stableboy approaches, leading a large, chestnut coloured horse toward the pair. 'I spoke to stable master,' Jon says, 'about getting you your own horse for today. He said he couldn't allow it, because you're small and you haven't learnt to ride properly yet, and if anything happened to you Father would be furious. So I'm afraid we'll have to share.'

'We're going riding?' Arya says, astonished.

'Of course,' Jon says, his eyes shining in amusement. 'Unless you want to walk to the stream.'

'The one in the wolfswood?'

'It's not too far away,' Jon says. 'Certainly as far as we'll be allowed to venture by ourselves. Any further and Jory will insist that he send half the guard with us. We'll still be within sight of Winterfell, but we should have some peace and quiet, gods be good.'

Jon sounds incredibly grown up as he talks, and certainly a lot more enthusiastic than he does most of the time. Jon has a habit of remaining silent and sullen when in the castle, but sometimes, when he's alone with no one but Arya and sometimes Robb for company, Arya gets to see a different side to her brother.

'Why are we going?' Arya asks.

'Why not? I thought you might want to do this. Unless you'd rather spend the rest of the day doing needlework with Septa Mordane…'

'No!' Arya says at once. She'd rather help Hodor clean out the stables than spend another second in her lesson.

Jon smirks and hoists himself up onto the horse. He reaches down to pull Arya up, and, with a bit of a boost from Hodor, Arya climbs onto the horse, nested comfortably in her brother's hold.

'Ready?' Jon asks her.

'Ready,' she replies.

* * *

The blaring gaze of the sun isn't as sharp once they reach the trees and are offered a bit of shelter. Arya still can't believe she and Jon have been allowed to venture beyond the walls of Winterfell by themselves. True, they're not going very far at all, and Jon is a boy of two and ten, almost a man grown, but Father never permits anything like this from any of his children. Arya briefly wonders if perhaps Jon will get into trouble for this. Who knows that they've left the castle? Hodor, obviously; but he's soft in the head and can only speak one word. The stable master knows as well, but Arya thinks that might be it. How long is Jon planning for them to be gone for? Not too long, surely, or else people will come looking for them.

Will we get in trouble? Arya wants to ask, but she is never usually the sort to worry about that kind of thing.

As if he can read her thoughts, Jon says, 'Father knows we're out here.'

Arya blinks. 'He does?'

'He must do, by now. Jory will have told him.'

'Jory knows? You told him?'

'I had to tell someone,' Jon says. 'I think they'd be quite angry if the two of us disappeared suddenly. He said as long as we stay by the stream and don't head any further into the woods, and we're back before sundown, we could come out here. It's safe. People come by here each day.'

Arya twists a little in her spot so she can look back at her brother. 'Do we have to be safe?'

'Safe is good, little sister,' Jon replies. 'What would you prefer?'

Arya grins. 'That we could go deeper into the woods. Where the wolves are, and the boar and bears.'

'That's why we must stay near the castle,' Jon chuckles. 'We won't find any of them here. I don't think we'd fare that well against them, do you?'

'But you went hunting for boar with Robb and Father not that long ago.' She remembers it clearly. She'd wanted to come, but Theon Greyjoy and Sansa both said she couldn't, because she was too young and because little ladies weren't supposed to be doing such things.

'We went with a hunting party, Arya. It's a bit different.'

'I could hunt boar. I'm better with a bow than Bran. I know I'm not supposed to practice, but Father let me.' Arya feels very proud of herself. 'I can even hit the target.'

'I'm sure you're good,' Jon says. 'But what about a crossbow?'

'I haven't used one before.'

Jon gives one of her shoulders a squeeze. 'Perhaps one day Father will let you try. He can keep it a secret from your mother, no doubt.'

Arya loves it when Jon encourages her to do these sorts of things. Robb finds her wishes amusing and will entertain her a little when she talks about wanting to be a knight, but he never sees it as anything more than a game. Sansa is mortified at almost everything her sister does, and even Bran knows by now that girls aren't supposed to hold swords. Baby Rickon doesn't really understand anything at all yet, but Arya isn't really supposed to scuffle with him because he is so small.

Jon is the only one who takes her seriously, and does not scorn her in some way. He never discourages her, even though she knows deep down that he probably believes she won't be allowed to pursue a life of grand adventures. He's kind enough not to say this, and she loves him for it.

'Here we are,' Jon announces shortly as the sound of the water current reaches Arya's ears. The trees are parting to reveal a little opening on the bank by the large stream. The sunlight is casting a warm glow on the grass and causing pretty bright lights to dance on the reflection of the trickling water. It's a small spot but Arya likes it already. She wonders if she should splash about in the water like she, Robb, Jon and Bran once did in the godwood pool beside the weirwood tree, before Maester Luwin told them off. No will will mind here, and certainly not Jon.

Her brother clambers down off the horse and holds his arms up for Arya. She leaps down into his embrace and scampers off the water's edge the moment he has set her down.

'Jon, look,' she exclaims. 'Do you think I could catch some fish?'

'With what?' Jon laughs. 'We have no nets.'

'With my hands. I could do it if I'm fast.'

Instead of telling her that it's impossible like everyone else would, Jon says, 'You'd have to be very quick.'

She shivers with excitement. 'I could be.'

While Jon tethers the horse to a nearby tree, Arya tries rolling the hem of her dress up so she can wade in the shallows, but it keeps falling down again. She huffs in annoyance and briefly wonders how angry Mother would be if she came back home with several inches of the dress torn off- it is a plain one after all, not altogether special. Or perhaps she should just take the dress off altogether. Jon won't mind, because he's her brother. He's seen her naked before, splashing about in the godswood pool and running around giggling as a toddler after baths. Mother says that when you're a child, it's alright. But as you grow older, it's improper. She says that both Sansa and Arya are too old for such indecent behaviour. Not that Sansa ever participated in it.

Mother's not here, anyway.

She strips quickly and throws the dress behind her, before stomping into the river as quickly as possible. Robb had once told her in the godswood that when going into cold water, it would be best to simply get it over with nice and quickly, which had then prompted Arya to leap in and splash Bran, who had followed her immediately into the pool to splash her right back.

The icy burn of the water does little to tame Arya's will. She squeals and begins laughing as the current quickly washes over her feet and comes up to her knees. She imagines herself as one of the first Targaryens to arrive in Westeros, hundreds of years before, climbing out of the boat to wade through the water towards the beaches of Dragonstone. Or perhaps she could be the Targaryens coming on their dragons to take Westeros. She turns back to face Jon, still splashing water with her hands.

'You're not going to catch any fish if you scare them all away,' Jon snorts.

Arya reaches down into the shallows and picks up a small, soggy stick that has fallen from an overhead branch. She points it at Jon like she would do with a sword. 'I am Visenya Targaryen,' she announces in the strongest, loudest voice she can muster. 'And we have come to conquer the seven kingdoms.'

This is an old game the children know, one that even Sansa always liked to join in with. Before Bran was born, Jon and Robb came up with it. Dragons and Wolves, they called it. Jon would pretend to be Aegon the Conqueror, while Sansa and Arya would be his sisters Rhaenys and Visenya. Robb would be Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. It was their favourite game, and they continued to play it for several years, until Robb and Jon were supposedly too old for that sort of thing and Sansa turned away from all things she considered childish. Which left only Arya, to play other sorts of games with little Bran.

 _Perhaps Jon isn't too old for it just yet. Here by the river, with only me for company…_

'You will bend the knee to us, or else die in battle,' Arya proclaims, the way she imagines Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys must have demanded it.

Jon tilts his head, confused. 'You forget, little sister, that I was always Aegon when we played. We'd be on the same side.'

'You can be Torrhen Stark this time. That way we can fight.'

'Torrhen Stark didn't actually fight, you know. It wasn't like how we played it. He bent the knee.'

Arya rolls her eyes, dropping the stick. 'Then you can be my dragon.'

'Your- your dra-?'

Before Jon can finish, Arya splashes the water with one big swipe, spraying Jon. He laughs and pulls of his overshirt, before rolling up his trousers so he too can join her in the water. Jon's clothes aren't special at all, and no one will really mind if he gets them wet or dirty. He clambers into the stream and bends down so Arya can climb on his back.

'Fly,' she tells him once she is secure, as if he really were a dragon, and Jon kicks off from the shallows, wading in deeper to the middle of the stream. It's freezing cold but the current is quite gentle, and all at once it feels as if the two really are flying.

'I'm afraid,' Jon huffs as he slowly makes it to the centre, 'that I'm not a very fast dragon.'

* * *

They splash around for a while in the stream. They're in long enough for the water to stop feeling so cold, and for both of them to grow quite ravenous. Luckily, when they make it back to the bank, Jon reveals that in a satchel he has brought with him, tied to the horse, he has some food that he stole from the kitchens earlier.

'The cook would ring my head in if he caught me taking this,' Jon says as he pulls it all out for the two of them.

They dry off in the sun, resting on the bank with their meal. Arya happily chats away about a game she and Bran played yesterday, where they teased baby Rickon by hiding from him. It had been quite amusing until Rickon had grown upset and started crying. Arya and Bran had been forced to emerge from their hiding places so the three could play something else.

'Why did we come here today?' she asks once she's finished her story. She has completely dried off now and she pulls her dress back on.

Jon squints at her in the sunlight. 'You were sad, little sister. I thought you could do with doing something that would make you happy.'

Arya is abruptly reminded of why she was so upset in the first place. With Jon by her side and all the time spent riding the horse and splashing about in the river, she has forgotten why she was upset in the first place. That was the point, wasn't it? Jon was trying to take her mind off it with all the fun they've had today. Arya wants to smile, but the thought of why she was sad won't go away now it has returned.

'Septa Mordane got angry with me,' she mumbles. 'She always does, but it was different this time. Sansa and- and J-Jeyne-'

Much to her own shame, she bursts into tears.

Jon is by her side in an instant, pulling her into his arms. She buries her face against his chest. 'I can't sew,' she confesses. 'I'm awful at it. All the girls are better than me at it, even the little ones. Jeyne Poole said I was hopeless, and said if only I were good at something.'

'But you are,' Jon says. 'You're good at running and wrestling with Bran-'

'But he's smaller than me.'

'Nevertheless, you are small and skinny, yet you're good at it. And I'm almost certain you'd find a way to knock Theon Greyjoy flat on his face. You're clever, Arya. You remember all those stories about the greatest warriors Westeros has ever seen.'

'Jeyne said I was ugly,' Arya whispers. 'She always calls me Horseface.'

Jon peers down at her. 'And how exactly are you ugly?'

'Because m-my face is too long and my hair is d-ull and messy and I look nothing like Mother or Sansa-'

'You look like Father,' Jon says thoughtfully. 'And me. Would you say we're ugly?'

Arya shakes her head. Jon is not ugly, and neither is Father. Father's face can be very stern and Jon's face can be very sullen, but they can both look very kind too. Father has wrinkles round his eyes from when he smiles at his wife and children, and Jon too has that special little smile he reserves just for Arya.

'If we're not ugly,' Jon says, 'then neither are you. For what it's worth, I think you're pretty. But you know it doesn't matter what you look like, don't you?'

'I know,' Arya says. 'But so many others say differently. People are always saying that Sansa will be the perfect match one day because of how pretty she is, and that so many will want to take her hand in marriage. They never say that about me.'

Jon raises his hand to her head and runs his fingers through her hair, soothingly. 'But that's not the life for you, is it?'

'What?'

'You're not interested in marrying some lord and becoming the lady of a castle, so why should any of their opinions matter to you?'

Jon has a point, but… 'I have to, though, don't I? Mother says all young ladies will become women and their fathers will find them a match. It doesn't matter what I want. I can't sail around the world or become a knight or ride into any battles. I'm supposed to marry a lord and give him sons and live in a castle and I… I can't even sew properly. I can't do anything. I c-can't stop it all from… from happening…' There are tears streaming down her face now. On any other given day, she wouldn't give into despair. She's a stubborn little thing who will always try to argue her way out of what is expected of her. But she is not having to fight against anyone right now. She is with Jon, who doesn't just bring out the strength in her, but also her vulnerabilities.

She used to run to him, terrified, about a silly little fear of hers: that she was not Mother's child, that she was a bastard, just like him. Jon would understand, she had thought. Jon would know what to do. He had always reassured her of who she was. 'I remember when Lady Stark carried you inside of her,' he had told her. 'I was small, but I remember.'

'Remember when I used to come to you, when I was afraid?' she begins tentatively. 'I thought I might be a bastard.'

Jon nods.

'It doesn't matter that you are,' she continues. 'It didn't matter to me if I was one. Not in that way. Not because I think it's bad.'

'I know,' he says.

'I was scared because I thought Mother wouldn't love me anymore,' Arya says. 'I was stupid. I remembered how she always looked at you, and how unfair I thought it was, and how I wasn't supposed to sit beside you in the great hall for dinner. I hate how you're not allowed to sit with us. I didn't want to be treated like that. And I hated that you were.'

'I remember what I thought when I first saw you,' Jon says suddenly. 'You looked like me. I thought you may be baseborn, even though I knew you were Lady Stark's. I thought I wouldn't be the only one. Then I realised none of it mattered. It doesn't matter how you're born, or who you're born to. It may matter to everyone else, but not to me. And not to you, either. I remember thinking that I had a new little sister to play with, and that maybe she wouldn't just want to do needlework and play with dolls. Maybe she'd want to roll around in the mud and run around the castle. Maybe she could be like me. Different from the others. Someone I'd have something to share with.'

Arya stares at him. 'You wanted all that?'

'Always,' Jon says. 'I know it was selfish, to want all that from someone. But when you were very little, I saw your brown hair and your grey eyes, and the way you smiled up at me when I first looked down at you, and I wanted it desperately. I was ever so fortunate. That wish was certainly granted.'

Arya blinks and stares down at her lap. She is exactly what Jon was hoping for. Even if she isn't good enough to be a lady for Mother and Sansa and Septa Mordane… she is perfect to Jon.

'But you aren't simply a wish of mine,' Jon says. 'You don't have to be exactly what someone wants. Not for me, not for anyone except yourself. I think… no matter where you find yourself, Arya, you'll be strong enough to make it your own life. You'll always find a way to be yourself. I have faith in that.'

When Arya looks back up at him, he is beaming down at her. And once again, all that matters is the sunlight on her skin and the trickle of the nearby stream while Jon holds her in his arms with those shining grey eyes of his.

With no more tears to spare, she smiles right back.

* * *

 **My GoT tumblr: _jonathansnowflake . tumblr . com_**

 **We could all do with a big brother like Jon, seriously.**

 **Chapters 3 and 6 are going to be longer than the others, as I'll be containing both Jon and Arya's POVs in them. 4 and 5 should follow a similar format to 1 and 2. I've definitely included quite a lot more of Arya's POV in the story so far, whereas the latter half of the story should have more of Jon's. I tried to draw quite a lot of parallels between the first two POV sections with sentence structure and the way Jon and Arya think of each other.**

 **And yeah. I totally made Jon Aegon Targaryen in their childhood game. And a dragon later on in the river. I had to. It also made a lot of sense for Arya to be Visenya (both are strong willed, both are warriors, both are unforgiving. Visenya was rumoured to have dabbled in dark magic and played with poisons, and that sounds a lot like Arya's Faceless Men training to me). Rhaenys, however, was of a much sweeter disposition, much like a young Sansa. Rhaenys may have been the younger of the two siblings, but I think Sansa and Arya would have both been quite comfortable in their roles for the game. The only key difference is that Aegon was supposedly a lot closer to Rhaenys than Visenya, whereas in their childhood Jon was always closest to Arya.**

 **Tbh I threw quite a few references and jokes into this. Like the whole thing about Arya saying she'd like a hammer (I'll throw hints at how much I love Gendrya 'til my dying day, no matter how vague they are). And as for her thinking that she can't fight with a needle... well. I suppose she just hasn't found the right needle yet ;)**

 **I know realistically a twelve-year-old probably wouldn't be allowed to supervise a seven-year-old outside the castle walls, no matter how young characters in ASoIaF/GoT are when they're expected to act like adults, and how close they stayed to Winterfell. They probably would have had several guards sent with them. But I really, really, _really_ wanted to write Jon and Arya having some quality alone time together in a private little spot.**

 **Anyway, next chapter will have all the Stark kids. And the reason for why I named this story _Summer Snows._**

 **Thanks for reading, and remember to review!**


	4. IV: Jon

**IV**

 **JON**

* * *

Jon awakens to two separate weights crashing down on his stomach.

He gasps and squirms, blinking furiously as his eyes come into focus. Fortunately, the light isn't too bright; daylight hasn't broken yet, but it can't be far away. It must be early morning.

The two figures on top of him, still bouncing up and down slightly, grin down at him. Jon manages a smile back, despite his abrupt awakening.

'Get up,' Arya says with a sly smile.

'Come and see,' Bran adds, eyes bright with excitement.

Jon tries not to wince at his battered stomach. Arya is now a girl of nine, and Bran a boy of seven. They are no longer tiny children; still easy enough to lift, perhaps, but quite heavy when their combined efforts are pressing down on him.

'At least let me breathe,' Jon half chokes, half laughs.

Bran scampers over to the foot of Jon's bed and sits cross-legged on the sheets, waiting expectantly for Jon to move. Arya, meanwhile, slides off the bed and stands beside Jon's upper half, already tugging at the sleeve of his shirt.

'You need to _hurry_ , Jon,' she insists in a stubborn, authoritative voice. 'Or else you might miss it.'

'Miss what?' Jon inquires, his voice still rough from sleep.

'The _snow_ ,' Bran breathes in wonder, then clasps his hands over his mouth, his eyes wide in alarm.

Arya is unforgiving. 'You weren't supposed to spoil the surprise,' she exclaims, glaring at Bran, who shoots an apologetic look back.

Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes and laugh. This is hardly the first time Winterfell has been graced with a light summer snow, and the children, especially the smallest ones, always find themselves in awe.

'I'm sure it's simply a passing affair,' he says, reluctant to discourage their excitement but feeling that it would be best to be honest with them. Last time, Bran had cried when it had only snowed for an hour or so, and hadn't even settled on the ground. Best that he and Arya know not to get their hopes up about it.

'You're wrong,' Bran bursts out with a giggle. 'We saw Maester Luwin on the way here. He says this one may last a while.'

'Did he now?' Jon says, amused. Poor old Maester Luwin was likely awoken by these two, or else had the peacefulness of his early morning studies interrupted by them. 'So if it's supposed to last, then why the need to hurry? I'm sure it will still be snowing come time to break fast.'

Arya flushes. 'Yes, but… what if Maester Luwin is wrong, after all?'

Bran turns to her with wide eyes. 'But Maester Luwin is always right. He knows _everything.'_

Arya scoffs. 'No one knows everything.'

'Old Nan knows everything. She remembers so many stories.'

 _And how many of them are actually true?_ Jon thinks with a little smile.

'Maester Luwin said the clouds are thicker and darker, and that they're spread all across the sky,' Arya babbles. 'So it could snow for _hours._ Maybe even _days._ Can that be true, Jon? _'_

This piques Jon's interest. Perhaps it isn't as early as he first believed; the lack of light could be from these dark clouds. 'I suppose, if Maester Luwin says so. In the winter, this would be a common enough sight.' He decides to humour his siblings and climbs out of his bed, much to Arya and Bran's delight.

Bran's face is full of wonder. 'Does this mean winter has come?'

'It can't have. The citadel sends white ravens when the seasons change,' Arya says, although she sounds uncertain. She turns to Jon for confirmation. Jon secretly loves that Arya always trusts him to tell her the truth of things.

'Indeed,' he replies. 'This is a summer snow. A heavy one, but one of summer nonetheless. So, what of our other brothers and sister? Have you told them yet?'

'I was up first,' Bran says proudly, 'and then I woke Robb and Rickon. We went to Arya next.'

'Robb told Bran and I to come and get you. He took Rickon, so they could go and wake Sansa,' Arya finishes.

Jon pauses. 'I doubt she'll like that.'

Arya shrugs, disinterested. She seems just as unfazed as that time she jumped in a puddle and splashed mud all over her sister's dress, which had prompted a whole morning of scolding from their mother. 'Sansa is silly. She hates fun.'

'She simply finds different things fun, little sister.'

'The sorts of things people want me to enjoy,' Arya says with a nod, seemingly understanding a little better. 'She should like this, though. It's _snow.'_

For a northern family, it's rather sad how little snow they've all actually seen. Arya, Bran and Rickon were all born in the long summer, Sansa is still too young to recall anything different, and Robb and Jon can barely remember their last winter, brief as it was. The summer snows are the closest the children have ever come to seeing winter.

And this one may be the best one yet.

* * *

As it turns out, Jon was right in thinking it is early morning. By the time he has dressed appropriately and followed his two younger siblings through the castle towards the others, people are just starting to arise from their beds. The sky is a swirling mess of dark grey, and outside the windows Jon can just make out the little white flakes slowly drifting down.

He shivers in excitement, then quickly reminds himself that he is practically a man grown now, and shouldn't behave like a small child.

Arya and Bran seem to have no such worries, however. They race along ahead of him, chatting away loudly about all the games they could play in the snow if it does end up settling on the ground. Jon is sure that they're the reason so many people are awake at this hour, and he chuckles to himself.

The six of them meet outside the kitchens. Robb, Sansa and Rickon are already there, displaying varying levels of enthusiasm: Rickon is as ecstatic as Arya and Bran, jumping and swaying from side to side in his restlessness; Robb appears level headed and sensible, although it's clear he's eager to venture outside; lastly, Sansa looks as if she hasn't truly woken up.

'Can't we wait a few hours?' she asks sleepily. 'It's ever so cold. We should be asleep, like everyone else.'

'I'm sure Arya and Bran have woken up at least half the castle,' Jon points out, and Robb laughs.

'I told you both to try and keep quiet when you went to wake Jon,' he says, feigning exasperation.

Bran giggles, and Arya says, 'Well, so what? People should be awake. It's _snowing.'_

'Come on, come on!' Rickon squeals, peering out of the nearest window with a massive grin.

'First things first,' Robb says with a smirk. 'If we'll be outside all morning, we'll likely miss our chance to break fast. We should eat now.' He glances over at the door to the kitchens, then turns and locks eyes with Jon, who instantly recognises the mischievous glint in his brother's eyes.

Sansa and Arya both seem to understand too, and they react very differently. 'Oh no, Robb, we _can't,'_ Sansa insists. 'You're a man now, like father. This is simply childish. What if we get caught?'

'We won't,' Arya says daringly. 'I do it all the time.'

'So do I,' Bran pipes up, realising what the plan is.

'So do I,' Rickon mimics, although he is only three and has likely never snuck into the kitchens before, nor properly understood what they're actually talking about.

Jon thinks back to all the many times he and Robb did it as children, and feels a sudden burst of excitement at the memories of the two of them racing away with stolen food. In this moment, he almost misses being young and playing such games. The last time he stole from the kitchens was two years ago, when he took Arya down to the stream just outside the castle in an effort to cheer her up. The thought of that day still brings a smile to his lips.

'Here's the plan,' Robb says in as serious voice as he can muster. His voice has just broken, and he does sound awfully grown up. Jon's voice, on the other hand, hasn't fully changed into that of a man's yet, and he finds it irritating how it seems to go up and down when he talks.

'Jon, Arya, Bran and I will get the food,' Robb continues. 'Sansa, you'll keep watch, here at the door. Rickon will stay with you.'

'No,' Rickon says immediately, eager to join in. His bottom lip trembles, threatening a tantrum. Rickon is a wild little thing, as untamed as Arya.

'We'll bring you little cakes,' Arya promises, and that seems to settle the small child down slightly.

Sansa doesn't seem altogether happy with these arrangements, but she is too tired to argue. While she and Rickon take their places as lookouts, Robb pushes against the door and steps inside, with Jon, Arya and Bran following.

* * *

Half an hour later, the six are well fed and eager to venture outside. A few passing servants warn the children to dress a little warmer, but their words fall on deaf ears. As far as the children are concerned, they've already put on enough layers.

They're met with an icy gust of wind when they step out into the yard, and Jon is instantly reminded of the coldness of the crypts, and how, several years before, he had awaited his siblings' arrival, huddled and shivering in one of the open tombs. He and Robb had thought it funny to tease Sansa, Arya and Bran. Of course, it at almost worked. Sansa and Bran had of course been terrified, but tiny Arya, only of four years of age, had been quite the little warrior. Jon had realised there and then that he much prefered this outcome to actually frightening his little sister to tears. They had laughed and laughed once it was all over, and the gloomy, icy crypts hadn't been all that daunting at all in the end.

'Cold,' Rickon says at once, making a big scene of shivering violently.

'It is. We ought to head back inside,' Sansa agrees, although her words are half-hearted. She is in just as much wonder as the rest of them, staring up at the falling snow as if she can't quite believe her eyes.

'We can't,' Bran insists, thinking that his sister is serious. He holds out his hand and gives a delighted laugh when a snowflake comes to rest on his palm, quickly melting.

'Try this,' Arya tells him, before tilting her head back and sticking her tongue out. Before long, a snowflake lands on her tongue and she giggles instantly.

'Arya, no,' Sansa scolds, likely thinking it to be childish. Bran and Rickon, meanwhile, copy Arya and try it for themselves.

'It's not settling yet,' Robb observes, staring at the ground.

'It will soon enough, I'm sure, from what Maester Luwin said,' Jon offers. 'Where's Theon, anyway? Didn't you ask him to come?'

Robb rolls his eyes and scoffs. 'Oh, I asked him. He complained even more than Sansa did when we woke him up. He said it was far too childish to go out and play in the snow. He's likely gone back to sleep.'

'Theon's stupid,' Arya remarks, pulling a strand of hair in front of her eyes so she can observe the little snowflakes caught in it before they melt. Instead of berating her, Sansa seems captivated by the snow in her sister's hair, and quickly pulls a strand of her own red hair to see for herself.

'Look,' she says, smiling away, all traces of her earlier disgruntlement gone. 'It's so pretty.'

'I wish it could snow all the time,' Bran agrees, trying to pull his fringe down slightly so he can join in.

'I'm afraid we won't sparring today,' Ser Rodrik calls over to Robb and Jon from the other side of the yard, coming over to greet the children. 'This is the heaviest snow in many years, and it's not likely to let up any time soon. I'm sure Maester Luwin will keep you occupied indoors.'

'Can't we stay out here?' Robb asks. 'Not to train. Just to…'

'To play,' Arya finishes.

Ser Rodrik smiles. 'Not in clothing that thin, gods forbid.'

'These are the warmest clothes we have,' Robb points out.

'Then you had best ask someone to find something thicker for you all. I'm sure your lady mother would be most upset if you stayed out here much longer, dressed like this.'

Begrudgingly, the children make their way back inside.

By the time they've each been given thicker clothing and are preparing to head back outside again, Theon has left his bed and come to greet them.

'You won't be able to go out now,' he says with a smirk, nodding at the nearest window. 'Look at it. It's getting heavier and heavier. You'll catch your death out there.'

'We are Starks,' Robb says stubbornly. 'We live out the coldest of winters here at Winterfell, never mind a mere summer snow.'

Theon raises an eyebrow. 'And how many cold winters have you seen?'

Robb flushes. 'I shall see plenty enough when I am grown and lord of Winterfell.'

Theon turns to Jon. 'And what of you, Snow? You have your father's blood, certainly, but what of your mother? Was she some southron tavern wench? Perhaps the sun and warmth would agree with you, far more than this place.'

Underneath the thick sleeve of Jon's tunic, his fist clenches.

'I have my father's blood,' he says stonily. 'I shall survive the winter just fine. Far better than you, Greyjoy.'

Next to him, Arya snorts with laughter.

But Theon is right on one account; as they all glance out the window, they can see for themselves just how heavy the snow is now. Barely anything at all can be made out- not any of the castle walls, nor any people who may still be out there. Lady Stark would never let her children venture out in weather like this. Jon may be able to get away with it, however; it's not as if her concern extends to him. But Father would surely have something to say on the matter, and Jon doesn't particularly like the idea of going out alone. What enjoyment could he really get out of it if his brothers and sisters aren't with him?

'We'll just have to wait for it to settle and stop snowing,' Robb says, although he sounds uncertain.

'That could take days…' Sansa points out wistfully.

'Well then,' Jon says, thinking quickly, 'imagine how much snow there will be by then.'

'I'm sure the ground will be absolutely covered in it,' Robb agrees, looking much happier.

A grin splits across Arya's face. 'We could fight in it,' she says excitedly.

Rickon seems to like this idea too. 'Fight!' he says.

'Like the Night's Watch, fighting the wildlings beyond the Wall!' Bran adds.

'Or perhaps fighting far worse than wildlings,' Robb says, as if preparing to tell one of Old Nan's stories about giants and shadow cats and White Walkers.

From the looks on the younger childrens' faces, he has clearly captivated them, Jon notes with an amused glance. Even Sansa seems intrigued, although less enthusiastic at the thought of all the old horrors beyond the Wall.

'... or we could be a pack of wolves, hunting down our prey,' Arya is saying, and Bran whoops in delight.

'What would be the prey?' Sansa asks hesitantly, almost as if she's dreading the answer.

Arya thinks for a moment, then says, 'Theon.'

Robb, Jon, Bran and Rickon burst out laughing.

* * *

Three days later, the heavy fall of snow begins to lighten up.

At first, Jon is skeptical. Every few hours or so, the snow will subside, only for it to resume its heavy downpour after a short while. He expects this time will be no different.

However, when it becomes clear that it isn't returning immediately, the younger children grow excited once more.

'Is it time?' Arya asks him as the two of them peer out a window. Arya is still too short to see properly out of it, so she has climbed onto the window ledge to get a better look.

'I hope so,' Jon replies. The last few days have been rather boring, what with the children being forbidden from venturing outside in such bad weather. With no training in the yard to keep him occupied, Jon has mostly found himself in extra lessons with Maester Luwin. He and Robb have subsequently agreed that as soon as they are able to go back outside, they shall certainly make the most of it.

Arya slides off the window ledge and grabs his sleeve, beginning to drag him down the corridor. 'Come on, then.'

Arya would surely be the leader of a pack, were she an actual wolf. Jon follows his headstrong little sister through the castle, quietly wondering if he was ever this bold when he was her age. The biggest, bravest thing he can remember doing from that time was agreeing to Robb's suggestion that he should be the one to hide in the crypts, and that Robb would lead the younger children down there. Jon had been freezing cold when he had climbed into that tomb, and when Robb left to collect their siblings, he had taken the candle, the only source of light, with him. While Jon had waited, he had been utterly terrified. The crypts had been completely silent, save for the occasional gusts of wind and the odd rat or two scuttling nearby. Jon had been afraid that one of them might climb into the tomb with him and begin biting him. He was more afraid, however, that he might upset an actual spirit by being there; not just some small boy, playing at being a spirit by covering himself in flour, but an actual ghost. Perhaps one of the old Kings of Winter would take great offence that Jon had dared to enter their crypts and pretend to be one of them.

His resolve had almost given in by the time he finally heard his brothers and sisters approaching. He had been ready to give up waiting in the tomb, and try and find his way blindly back to the steps leading out of the crypts, when he heard footsteps coming towards him, and Robb's voice saying that this place was where the dead walked. Jon had then climbed out of the tomb and begun playing the game, advancing towards the children. Sansa had screamed and ran, and Bran had burst into tears and clung to Robb desperately.

Arya, however, had not stood for it at all. She had likely been afraid, deep down, but it hadn't seemed to matter to her. She had punched him and called him stupid, before lightening up when everyone began laughing.

 _I was never as brave as her,_ Jon thinks. _No one is._

* * *

Robb has good news for them when the children all finally trudge out into the deep snow that covers the courtyard.

'Father is sending Jory and his guard with us,' he says. 'He says we can go outside the castle walls.'

Beyond the south gate of the castle is a great expanse of grass, now covered in snow. The Kingsroad itself has completely vanished, buried under the thick, white blanket.

'We'll have so much snow to play in,' Bran breathes as they finally step out through the gate, before scooping up a handful of it at his feet and exclaiming loudly at the coldness.

'Your fingers are going to freeze,' Sansa fusses, quickly handing him one of the several pairs of gloves she had gathered earlier this morning for herself and her siblings.

Robb, Jon, Arya and Bran already have theirs on, but Rickon is the only one who doesn't take a pair. He dodges her when she tries to give them to him and runs out into the snow, giggling.

'Rickon,' Sansa huffs, 'you need to put these on.'

He squeals and rolls over in the snow, waving his arms about like he would do if he were splashing in water. Those standing closest to him are immediately sprayed by little chunklets of snow.

Baring her teeth like an animal, Arya pounces on him, laughing as the two begin to scramble and tumble over each other. Bran cries out happily and joins them.

'Cold!' Rickon giggles. 'It's cold!'

'Which is why you'll need the gloves, little brother,' Robb snorts. 'Now be good and take them from our sister, alright?'

Rickon stumbles over to Sansa, his hands already red and freezing. While Sansa fusses with his gloves, Arya and Bran continue with their playfight, and Robb and Jon watch in amusement. Behind them, Jory and several other guards are joining them on the outskirts of the castle, and they too seem entertained by the childrens' game. Jon even hears one of them them mention something about 'the little wolf of Winterfell', and knows exactly who they are referring to. Much like 'Arya Underfoot', this title has become a favourite for the younger Stark daughter among the castle folk.

She truly seems like a wolf, the way she pounces on Bran and the two tumble down a small slope. Sansa, who has finished ensuring that her youngest brother's hands are protected, calls out in alarm. 'Arya, Bran! You'll be soaking wet when the snow melts!'

Arya and Bran, who splash in puddles all the time and were all too happy to jump in the pool beside the great weirwood tree some years before, likely don't care in the slightest, and Sansa seems to realise this. She gives a small sigh and a reluctant smile when her two younger siblings pay her no heed.

A part of Jon wills him to go after his siblings, to begin playing around in the snow too. A stronger voice in his head reminds him that at four and ten, he is almost a man grown, and has no business acting like a child. He may have no great and noble future ahead of him like Robb does as the next lord of Winterfell, but doesn't mean he can afford to-

His thoughts are interrupted when a snowball whizzes past him and hits Robb's shoulder. The two of them stare in bewilderment as the crumbled ball of snow falls in much smaller chunks to the ground, before they cast their eyes in the direction it came from. Rickon grins cheekily back at them, arms full of more snow to throw.

'Fight!' he calls out excitedly, which gets Arya and Bran's attention. They glace up at their siblings, before hurriedly heading back up the slope to join in. A few feet away, plenty of the guards are already chuckling.

Sansa, meanwhile, looks mortified. She mumbles, 'No, no, no,' and rushes to Robb's side, clearly hoping he'll provide some sort of cover for her.

Arya begins gathering snow in her arms like Rickon, trudging over to Jon as she does so. When their eyes meet, she raises her eyebrows expectantly. Jon realises she wants him to join in too, and his previous concerns about acting like a child abandon him.

'Three against three,' Robb announces suddenly, glancing at Sansa and Bran, who are closest to him. He then looks to Jon and motions that his brother should take Arya and Rickon on his side. Jon grins and nods, already pleased at the thought of this game. Even if behaving like a child is improper, certain exceptions can of course be made- most importantly of which is the chance to help entertain his younger siblings. And he'd be lying if he said he isn't excited to play too. Robb clearly has no qualms with it, and neither should he.

'Let the battle commence,' the eldest Stark sibling declares, 'and may the best side win.'

* * *

With the help of the guards, it isn't long before large mounds of snow act as small walls and even tunnels for the children to shelter behind as they pelt each other with snowballs. By the time they've finished with the construction, it has begun snowing again, although lightly. The children won't be told to come inside just yet, not unless the weather gets worse, so they should have some time to play. They've decided the game shall go on until all three members of one side have yielded.

Ducking down behind one long snow mound, Jon glances back at the two siblings following him. Out of all his brothers and sisters, he feels he's likely got the best pick of allies here. It wouldn't be fair of course for Robb and Jon, the two oldest, to be on the same side, as it would put the other side at an obvious disadvantage.

Arya and Rickon, however, are perfect. Jon is immensely glad to have Arya on his side, as she is perhaps the one sibling he is closest to, besides Robb, and is most certainly a force to be reckoned with. Rickon, despite his age and size, is already wild like Arya. He may be a little harder to instruct, but Jon doesn't doubt his enthusiasm. Neither he nor Arya are likely to yield.

Bran would probably be another good ally, given his talents in climbing and running around all the time with Arya. But he doesn't exactly have anywhere to climb here, and it would would be awfully unfair on the other side if they didn't at least have him. Jon suspects Sansa isn't going to want to get too involved, and will probably spend most of this battle hiding behind a snow mound. Finally, Robb should certainly prove a worthy opponent. Decent, but not unbeatable.

There is a very good chance that Jon's side might just win.

'Now, Arya, listen,' he says. 'I know this is a game, and we want to win, but try not to give Sansa too much trouble, aye?'

Arya pouts. 'Shall I go for Robb then? Or Bran? Sansa's too easy- Rickon should go after her.'

'Bran!' Rickon argues, intent on who his target should be.

The two begin to bicker, and Jon hushes them quickly. 'Shh. We don't want to give our position away. They might be coming for us right now.'

As if having been summoned by Jon's words, Bran suddenly appears around the edge of the mound, hand raised and clutching snow. Jon quickly pushes Arya and Rickon along in the opposite direction, shielding them as best he can. He feels the snowball hit him between his shoulder blades and hears Bran's shout of victory, before Arya suddenly turns around and pushes past him with her own snowball in hand. Jon barely has time to turn before he hears Bran shout out again, this time in panic. The small sound of snow smacking into something and Arya's laughter lets him know that his sister has found her target.

Bran races off and ducks behind another snow mound, probably searching for Robb and Sansa so as to regroup, and Arya heads back over to Jon and Rickon. 'That will teach him,' she says triumphantly, and Rickon giggles.

'I'm sure it will,' Jon agrees, ruffling her hair like he often does. Little snowflakes caught in it fall freely at his touch, and she grins up at him.

'Let's attack,' she says, and beside her Rickon snickers with glee.

The three make their way along the little carved out tunnel, cautiously staying close to the ground. Jon has to stoop down the most as he is the tallest, and he finds himself practically crawling at some point. He keeps a close eye on Rickon, who is bouncing with excitement and can't keep quiet for long, no matter how much Jon and Arya urge him to. He seems to have forgotten quickly that this is a game that requires stealth and cunning, although at only three years of age, he likely never grasped the concept in the first place. Jon is afraid that the boy will grow bored of sneaking around and decide to jump over the wall of snow and head out into the open.

Rickon's excited babbling finally gains some attention; this time it's Robb, who is suddenly towering over them from the other side of the snow wall. He lifts out his arms and promptly dumps a huge pile of snow he was carrying on top of Jon.

Rickon shrieks with joy and leaps over the wall, giving chase to Robb, who is already hurrying away. Robb feigns a cry of terror, likely to amuse his little brother, and pretends to run away in fear.

'Rickon!' Arya hisses. 'Rickon, get back here!'

But the small child has disappeared after Robb, cackling away.

Jon is certain Robb won't do anything to hinder Rickon's efforts; he may even yield for the child, so as not to upset him. Bran likely won't have the foresight to go easy on the youngest Stark, however, so Jon decides to focus his efforts on him. 'Come on,' he says to Arya, beginning to head in the direction they last saw Bran in. They might find Sansa with him too, and claim an easy victory.

'We're like the Night's Watch and the wildlings,' Arya says suddenly. 'And this is the Wall.' She motions to the short wall of snow beside her.

It must be very unimpressive compared to the actual Wall, which Jon has heard is over seven hundred feet high, but he doesn't voice his thoughts aloud. Arya's imagination always makes things more interesting, anyhow. 'You're right,' he says. 'But if our two sides here are the Night's Watch and the wildlings, then… which side are we?'

Arya's daring grin and wild eyes gives him all the answer he needs. She and Rickon are far from savages, but they would make good wildlings in this game. He supposes he must be one too, even if he'd much prefer to be a brother of the Night's Watch.

Eventually, the wall of snow comes to an end. A few feet away, another one begins, twisting at a different angle. Between the two is open space, where they would make easy targets. Jon realises that if they are to cross, they must hurry.

Still keeping low, Jon and Arya dash between the two walls and successfully make it to the other side. Once again, they continue hurrying through a winding tunnel, so quickly that Arya suddenly ends up tripping over Sansa as they turn round one sharp corner.

The elder Stark sister cries out in alarm and tries to crawl away, but Arya is quicker. Still partially on top of her sister, she reaches out and grabs a handful of snow, before rubbing it against Sansa's neck.

'I yield!' Sansa sobs, cringing at the cold snow on her skin. 'I yield!'

Arya smirks victoriously and climbs off her sister. Her win is short-lived, however, as she is suddenly hit in the leg with a snowball. Off to the side, Bran has returned, and as Jon bends down to scoop up some snow, he gets hit in the chest. Bran is clearly quite quick, but so is Arya. Ignoring the flow of snowballs sent her way, she races up to her brother and performs the same tactic that she used with Sansa; with a handful of snow, she tries pressing it against Bran's skin. His neck isn't overly exposed, so she goes straight for his face. The two tumble over and disappear behind another wall.

Jon is so distracted by them that he doesn't notice Robb approaching until it is too late. Another snowball hitting him, this time in the head, causes him to spin around and face his brother.

Rickon is nowhere to be seen but Robb stands there, grinning from ear to ear. Surely he hasn't made Rickon yield? He must have gone easy on the youngest child. Rickon has likely scampered off, ready launch an attack.

Jon has been pelted with snow a little too much already by this point, so he decides to enact his revenge. With the handful of snow he had ready for Bran, he throws it at Robb, who deflects it with his arm. This gives Jon the chance to mimic his sister's movements and go for a close range attack; after all, Arya's technique seems to be quite effective. Jon charges at his brother, ready to start shoving snow down the back of Robb's neck if he has to, much like he's sure Arya is doing to Bran right now, judging by the yelps and shouts he can hear from behind the wall. It doesn't exactly seem like the most decent of moves, and usually Jon would shy away from something so devious. But this is merely a game, and he is impressed with Arya's method. She'll be so delighted if they win, and Jon does love it when she's happy.

'Sansa, come help me,' Robb calls as Jon draws closer.

'She yielded,' Jon tells him as draws closer.

Robb curses and bends down to collect more snow, just as Jon leaps at him with his own handful. The two fall to the ground, much like Arya and Bran did, and immediately begin scuffling. The icy burn of the snow is pressing against his cheek as he ends up face down. He quickly rolls over and tries pushing snow into Robb's face. Unfortunately, Robb gains the upper hand as he ends up on top, his weight pressing down on Jon. One of Jon's arms is still free, however, and he makes the most of it. He scrapes around for snow and then swings his arm up, pressing his hand into Robb's face. His brother grunts in surprise and his hold on Jon loosens slightly, giving the younger more leeway to fight back.

Somewhere behind the wall, he hears Bran crying out, 'I yie- Arya, stop! I yield!' Strangely, his voice is giggly and high-pitched, and Jon wonders what else Arya might have done in order to win.

'Where's Rickon?' Jon gasps as Robb retaliates with the same move as Jon's, pressing snow against his face.

'He ran off,' Robb huffs. 'The guards won't let him go far, don't worry-'

At the mention of his name, Rickon suddenly leaps out from behind the wall Sansa is still crouching beside, and she gives a cry of shock as she is sprayed with snow. Rickon jumps on Robb's back and wraps his arms around the eldest brother's neck, screeching out some kind of war cry.

Robb lets go of Jon and backs away, chortling with laughter as the young boy begins pulling at his hair. 'Alright, Rickon, alright. I yield.'

Jon blinks. If Sansa, Bran and Robb have all yielded, then that means he, Arya and Rickon have won. He is about to climb to his feet when he hears a new voice.

'What is seven hells is going on here?' Theon sniggers from somewhere to Jon's right, out of view.

'Decided to come out to join us?' Robb says, smirking.

'I won't take part in this, that's for sure,' Theon smirks. 'I just wanted to see what all the shouting was about is all. I could hear you all back inside the castle.'

'Just your luck. It appears the game is finished,' Robb says.

'No,' Rickon whines, still clutching at Robb's neck.

Jon twists his body slightly so he can catch a glimpse of Theon standing there, looking down on them all with a mocking smile. He means to get up, but with the thrill of the battle now over, he suddenly feels rather exhausted. No matter how cold the snow is, it feels nice to just lie here for a moment and catch his breath.

Theon turns his sneer on Jon. 'Comfortable down there, Snow?'

Jon is about to retort, when a snowball abruptly comes out of nowhere and smacks Theon right in the face.

Robb explodes with laughter and even Sansa begins smiling in spite of herself. From somewhere beyond Jon's line of vision, he hears Arya cheer triumphantly.

'Good one, sister,' Robb gasps between chuckles, and Bran and Rickon's voices guffaw loudly in agreement.

Theon wipes the snow from his face and scowls. 'Little ladies shouldn't be behaving in such a way.'

Arya ignores him and finally appears before Jon, staring down at him. Her face is red from all the excitement and her hair is more of a mess than ever. Jon takes one look between her exultant face and Theon, before his chest begins shaking with laughter that he can barely contain.

His little sister is a good shot, that much is certain.

'What did you do to Bran?' he manages to finally get out once he gains control of his laughter.

Arya reaches down with one hand to help pull him up. 'I tickled him until he yielded.'

'Arya,' Jon scolds fondly as he takes her hand and climbs to his feet. 'You were meant to use _snow._ '

'Well, I used that too,' she says simply, before shooting him a sharp-toothed grin.

Jon's mouth stretches into a massive beam. 'You truly are the little wolf of Winterfell,' he says, much to Arya's delight, and somehow his smile is harder to control than even the laughter.

* * *

 **I believe I said back in chapter 1 (before season 7 actually began) that if Jon and Arya didn't reunite in season 7, I'd track the show runners down and stick 'em with with the pointy end. Hey D &D, can you meet me out back quickly? I just want to talk.**

 **Okay, yeah, so this is why I named the fic _Summer Snows_. Because of four pages worth of snowball fighting in makeshift trenches. I thought right back at the start that I definitely wanted to have one chapter about all the Starklings playing in the snow. It was irresistible. I just had to. This is the first chapter that actually has all the kids in it, and possibly the last. The next one might to, though probably not all in a scene together, and as for the final chapter... well, I think I've mentioned before that the final chapter will be after a much bigger timeskip, dealing with the current events of the show (sorta post-season 7/mild season 8 speculation). In which I will include a Jon and Arya reunion no matter what because *glares at D&D* that's what we all _want._**

 **I've extensively planned out the last chapter, right down to the actual dialogue, but only in my head. I should really write this all down tbh. The next one's dialogue, on the other hand, is partly written out for me- at least, for one scene, anyway. The oh so famous 'stick 'em with the pointy end' scene itself.**

 **Sorry y'all had to wait so long for this one. I got a little carried away with this other GoT fic I just started. Hopefully, this unexpectedly long chapter makes up for it. (It seriously wasn't supposed to be this long lol.)**

 **Thanks for reading, and remember to review!**


End file.
